The Fugitives - Missing Scene
by Theresa W. K
Summary: Slim is wounded, lying in a gulley, and his thoughts are of his life and his partner.


**The Fugitives – A Missing Scene**

 **By Theresa**

A bone-chilling draft slithered around his prone body, dipping seductively beneath his red neckerchief and whisper-tickling the backs of his ears and neck. The sensation wasn't particularly unpleasant, and he reluctantly allowed his conscious self to be drawn from the cocoon of velvet blackness sheltering his mind and body.

Moments later, still fuzzy-headed, yet thoroughly cognizant of the fact that he was lying on his side in a shallow ravine, Slim Sherman opened his eyes to rocks, dry weeds and dirt. The muck clogged his left nostril, making it hard to get a full breath and, from his position, he could only see a hint of gray storm clouds stampeding across the sky. A current of cold air, fragrant with the odor of horse manure, onion grass, and an impending rain storm, swirled over him, bringing with it an unsettling awareness that his current situation was tenuous. The bullet in his shoulder had burrowed deeply, tearing both muscle and tendons, and the impact of the fall from his mount had broken or cracked several ribs. His blurred vision also smacked of a possible concussion.

When at last he could focus both his mind and his eyes, Slim viewed his surroundings from another realm of existence.

The situation seemed surreal … he was isolated **,** in the middle of nowhere, hurt, cold and very much alone. Yet, he remembered clearly the hard clubbing blow to his shoulder that yanked him from Alamo's saddle. He recalled slamming onto the rock-strewn ground, the breath violently wrenched from his body. A strange, but welcome, numbness followed, spreading throughout his body until it enveloped his entire being. He rolled into a shallow ditch and finally lay still, stunned and thick-brained with shock. The delayed report of a rifle being fired and the sound of Alamo's fading cadence as he galloped away were the last things he heard before surrendering to welcome oblivion.

Fully awake now, Slim made an effort to lift his head, but even that slight movement escalated the gnawing ache in his right shoulder to an almost unbearable level. Ravaged muscles contracted, bunching into knots of searing agony. Paralyzed with pain, he cried out, heard his hoarse protest echo in the emptiness of the surrounding valley. Nausea and bile stung the back of his throat. Swallowing the sickness, he forced himself to lie completely still until the feeling ebbed. When the queasiness and pain finally settled to tolerable levels, he felt his eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion. The abyss was calling to him again, her long sensual fingers beckoning him to follow her. Self-preservation and discomfort forced him to accept her invitation, and he quietly surrendered to the safety and comfort of the 'little death'.

 _The gathering was small, just a few friends and family. Slim stood in the front door threshold of his small ranch house, surveying the unusual goings-on across the knoll. He recognized Andy, noting that his younger brother had grown at least six inches since he'd last been home for a visit. Beside the teenager, Jonesy, hunched over and obviously in some physical and emotional distress, seemed to have aged at least ten years. The usually gregarious Daisy stood stiff and silent. Dressed all in black, including a translucent mourning veil, she clutched a handkerchief to her breast. Little Mike, standing beside her in his finest Andy hand-me-downs, desperately clung to the older woman's hand. Neighbors and friends - Jim Alden, Ben Random, John Weston and their various wives and children - crowded nearby, heads bowed, hats in their hands. In the middle of the throng of people, Sheriff Mort Corey held an open book in his hands. He seemed to be reading from it, yet the distance prevented Slim from hearing the words._

 _/_ Must be a funeral _/ he thought. Then, confused, he viewed the scene once more. His brow furrowed as the question of who was being buried in the Sherman Family Cemetery flitted across his consciousness. He looked again, noting each face – man, woman, and child._

 _/_ Andy … Daisy … Mike … Mort … Jonesy …/

 _A moan started deep within as he realized who was missing._

 _/_ Jess! Oh my God, not Jess! _/_

 _He took a hesitant step onto the small wooden porch, readying himself to join the gathering of mourners. Just as he started forward, a single horse and rider appeared atop the adjoining hill. The cowboy steered his horse to the edge of the cemetery, dismounted, and removed a familiar dust-covered hat. In what seemed a reluctant effort, Jess Harper strode to the gravesite and lowered his head._

 _/_ Jess! _/ Slim thought, relief draining all the strength from his body. Releasing a long sigh, he collapsed heavily into one of the ladder-backed chairs on the porch. A gentle breeze, lightly scented with pine and hay, caught his fair hair, tousling it onto his forehead. He reached up, finger-combed it back into place, then exhausted, closed his eyes and slept._

 _Slim awakened to a downpour. Booming sounds of thunder echoed from the blackened sky above, sending fat droplets of rain slamming onto the gravel road, the corral, the barn, and the short porch roof. Standing, the tall man stretched to get the kinks out, then smiled as his nose caught the scent of apples, cinnamon and fresh-baked bread. Daisy's home-cooked dinner would be welcome tonight; he was famished._

 _He half-turned to enter the house, then caught sight of the family cemetery again. All mourners had departed, moving on to continue with their lives, all the while shoving the thought that one day, they too, would be encased in wood and buried in the ground._

 _/_ Ashes to ashes, dust to dust/ _Slim thought gloomily, turning once more to enter the house. He savored the thought of being warm and dry, sitting down to the dinner table with Daisy, Mike, and Jess. Later, he would have a game of checkers in front of the fire place, soundly trumping both Mike and Jess. Then, he would crawl into his comfortable bed and fall asleep to the sounds of Daisy putting the dishes away, Mike's whining about unfinished homework, and Jess' complaints and excuses for his continued losing streak._

 _Abruptly, a familiar voice drew his attention back to the graveyard. His partner and friend, Jess Harper, stood beside the new mound of earth, spewing a tirade of curses. He listened for a moment, catching a few words here and there. From the closed fists, angry tone, and loud volume, Slim could tell that his friend was nearly beside himself with anger and grief. Ignoring the drenching rain, he strode purposefully toward the cemetery and his troubled pard but, by the time he reached his mother's grave marker, Jess had disappeared._

 _Urgently scouring the surrounding area, he swiped the dampness from his eyes and forehead. "Jess! Jess, where are you?" He had to shout to be heard over the howling wind and rain._

 _When he received no reply, he placed a hand on his mother's tombstone and lowered his gaze to the name chiseled in the granite. It read, "Mary Sherman" along with the years of her birth and death. Stumbling forward, he noted his father's headstone and sighed. Matthew Sherman had passed away long before his time. To his left were three other graves, much smaller and none with name markers, but he remembered his pa gathering rocks to place around each of his tiny siblings' graves. One brother had been stillborn; another had lived only a day. His sister had survived almost a week. It had been more than a decade after her birth that Andy had arrived, red, fat and screaming at the top of his lungs. His baby brother was alive and strong but, by then, he was almost a man ... and there was a war brewing in the East._

 _Tightening his lips into a thin line at the memories, he approached the new grave with a strange foreboding. The fresh mound of dirt had a temporary marker, and he hunkered down, moving closer so he could read the handwritten name._

" _Matthew John (Slim) Sherman, Jr._

 _1846-1876_

 _Beloved Brother and Pard"_

 _/_ It can't be! It's not true! I'm right here!/

 _Recoiling from the unbelievable words, Slim stood and backed away. The rain was now a torrent; icy globules of liquid mercilessly stung his face and neck. He turned, intending to run to the safety of his ranch house, but the downpour obscured his vision. Disoriented, he stumbled several feet before falling into a water-soaked ravine._

" _Jess! Help me … Jess … please, pard …"_

Numb with cold and drenched to the skin, Slim awoke from the nightmare to the sound of his partner's voice calling to him. Through the red-throbbing darkness, he heard Jess Harper's distinctive baritone, bone weary with exhaustion.

"Slim! Can you hear me?"

He opened his mouth, tried to answer, but the sound that issued forth was a deep groan. With a tongue void of all moisture, he licked his rain-wet lips and heard his own voice from a thousand miles away croak, "Here."

The darkness was so thick and damp, it was almost palpable, yet he could hear the sound of shod-hooves nearby.

"Slim!" There was undisguised anguish in the single syllable.

He shivered, heard his voice moan again as something sharp stabbed at his shoulder. His feeble "Jess …" was barely audible, but Traveler nickered, and Slim heard the sound of boots hitting gravel. Moments later, a gloved hand touched his frozen face.

"Slim!"

A damp cloth warmed his forehead, then continued on to clean his cheeks and wipe the drops of moisture from his eyes.

"Slim, thank God! I've been lookin' for you for hours. Just about lost all hope. Hang on now, just hang on, pard. I'll get you home."

His partner's voice broke through the narcosis of shock and pain, and he opened his eyes for a moment, saw Jess' drawn and haggard face. Cloisters of black oblivion tugged frantically at him, but he resisted. "You … look awful," he managed.

Jess' smile was faint, made even more so by the impending darkness. He was too tired; he didn't have the strength to fight anymore. His friend's, "You look worse," was the last thing he heard as he yielded to blessed unconsciousness.

END

Everybody loves a 'bad' boy, that 'dangerous fly-off-the-handle' unpredictable kind of guy. Older women want to mother him; young women want to tame him; and little girls have big crushes on men who ride the fence between good and evil. Jess Harper was the 'bad boy' of Laramie.

In direct contrast is Slim Sherman, a laid-back staid man, easygoing and conventional which usually implies 'dull'. However, John Smith made certain that his character of Slim Sherman was anything but boring. John's portrayal of the fair-haired 'good' guy, Slim, was brilliantly three-dimensional with a multitude of personality perks: strong emotion, deep passion, and a moral streak, i.e., conscience, so unbendable that only love and loyalty could make a dent.

The man named John Smith portrayed Slim in such a way that, after more than half a century, watching him in action onscreen is riveting. His tall, lean form, reminiscent of an El Greco subject, was instantly recognizable with his customary, almost-lyrical stride, his small hips and waist, and broad shoulders. His hair was fine, sun-kissed hues of honey and wheat, with an unmanageable 'forelock' that repeatedly resisted his comb. High cheekbones, a round face, and square jaw were unique in the land of Hollywood, as were lips with a perfect bow and china blue eyes. John Smith was not just another 'pretty face'.

His presence as Slim taught a whole generation that standing up for what you believe is never wrong, family and friends should be treasured, and doing the right thing may hurt at first, but the sting is less painful and usually only temporary. Slim Sherman believed in justice, hard work, and loyalty to one's God, country, and family. It was a simpler time, but he was not an uncomplicated man.

Unlike some other westerns of the time, Laramie was an adult drama, and both Slim and Jess were not always white-hat heroes. John ensured that Slim was an imperfect human being. He was stubborn to a fault, worrying too much about finances and not enough about his own safety. At times, he refused to listen to warnings from his closest friend, and he wasn't above throwing a temper tantrum on occasion. Slim was too strict with his younger brother, too lenient with his pard, and let loose the strings of his hearts only to have them knotted and thrown back at him too many times.

John Smith was a man – a human being – a son, a husband, a friend, an actor - and, like all human beings, he was not perfect. Yet his portrayal of Slim Sherman had a perfection that has kept our interest and lasted through several generations. For this gift, we thank him.


End file.
